Cecelia's table was close enough that when Thea tilted her head just so to respond to the man on her right, Grant caught a flash of Emmy's red over her shoulder.
Tyce Duke had joined Cecelia's table.
He'd pulled up a chair between Emmy and one of the board members, leaning back with the easy confidence of someone used to being welcomed wherever he sat. Emmy listened, champagne glass raised halfway to her lips, completely absorbed. Whatever the story was, it held her entirely—her eyes bright, focused on Tyce's face like nothing else in the room existed.
Grant picked up his water. Took a long drink.
"We've all been dying to know," the venture capitalist's wife said, finally addressing Grant directly, "what actually happens in those blue sideline tents?"
Dr. Morrison leaned forward. "Yes, I read an article about the latest CTE research. The longitudinal studies are finally starting to show patterns, though I imagine the findings can't be comfortable for the league."
Grant set down his fork. "They're not. But the science is what it is. We've been doing updated baseline testing since last season—cognitive function, memory recall, reaction times. Track it all throughout the year."
"That's the subconcussive hit research, isn't it?" Thea leaned forward. "I read something about helmets with sensors?"
"Yeah. They measure rotational force, not just linear impact." Grant demonstrated with his hands. "A hit straight-on registers differently than one that snaps your head sideways. The rotation's what causes the shearing?—"
"The axonal damage," Thea finished. "That's what the Boston University study showed, right? Even impacts below concussion threshold can accumulate."
The venture capitalist looked between them. "So you're basically tracking brain damage in real time?"
"We're tracking hits," Grant corrected. "Whether they cause damage depends on a lot of factors. Force, angle, how many you've already taken, genetics probably."
"It's fascinating how much the science has evolved," Thea said, her hand finding his arm briefly. "Though who knew a sport full of neanderthals chasing a ball would be at the forefront of neuroscience?" She laughed, warm and easy, and the table joined her.
Grant smiled. Took a drink of his water.
Dr. Morrison asked about helmet design evolution, and Grant found himself actually enjoying the conversation—someone asking intelligent questions instead of whether he thought they'd cover the spread. Thea asked good follow-ups, made connections to research she'd read. The venturecapitalist's wife finally thawed enough to ask about his foundation's youth concussion program.
Maybe Emmy had gotten this one right.
Dessert arrived—something architectural involving chocolate and gold leaf that looked like it required an engineering degree to eat. A museum board member gave a speech about the transformative power of the arts. Grant applauded at the right moments and tried not to calculate how many protein shakes he'd need tomorrow to offset the five-course surrender.
After the speeches, the tables dissolved. This was the part where donors got their money's worth—proximity to people they wanted to know, conversations they could mention at their next cocktail party. Thea and Dr. Morrison pulled Grant toward the Calder sculpture, the venture capitalist couple trailing behind with two museum board members Grant hadn't met yet.
Contemporary art and classical forms, apparently. One of the board members was making a point about postmodern irony that seemed to involve a lot of hand gestures. Grant tracked the rhythm of it—who was performing, who was engaged, who was waiting for their turn to talk. Same dynamics as a press conference, different uniforms.
Emmy appeared at the edge of the circle like she'd been conjured.
She folded into the group with the easy grace of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere, listening with that focused attention she gave people that made them feel like the only person in the room.
The conversation meandered through safe territory—gallery exhibitions, public versus private funding, whether accessibility diluted artistic vision. Emmy contributed thoughtfully, asking questions that made the board members preen. Grant stayed quiet, tracking the rhythm like watching tape.
Then Dr. Ashford arrived.
She swept into the circle with a presence built from forty years of faculty meetings and the absolute conviction that she'd been right in every single one of them. Severe pearls. Posture that could cut glass. The board members straightened.
"Margaret," one of them said, relief evident.
"The commodification of art, yes, I heard." Dr. Ashford's gaze swept the circle, lingered on Grant, dismissed him. "Though I'm not sure we're qualified to discuss high culture when we're standing next to a monument to low entertainment."
She gestured vaguely toward the museum's sports photography exhibit across the atrium.
Thea's hand found his elbow.
"I think that's unfair," Emmy said. Pleasant. Professional. "High and low culture have always been in conversation. Shakespeare was popular entertainment."
"Shakespeare elevated popular forms through intellectual rigor." Dr. Ashford's smile could've frozen champagne. "There's a difference between accessible art and mere spectacle."
